As Dadi and I walked those last few steps toward home, I kept waiting for the old ache to return, but it didn't. Something inside me had changed on those mountain mornings the kind of change that doesn't shout, it just quietly stays. When we reached the gate, Dadi squeezed my hand once before going ahead, humming like she always did when she was happy. I followed slowly, taking in everything-the chipped paint of our old door, the jasmine plant Dadi trimmed every Sunday, even the little rangoli stain from last Diwali. Everything looked the same. I wasn't.

Inside, Dadi fussed over me like she'd been waiting a lifetime. Water first, then food, then asking if I needed a sweater-despite the fact that it wasn't even cold. I let her. Let her talk, let her hover, let her love me in the only way she knew how. It was grounding. Safe. Honest.